The usual disclaimer applies.

Never Done

Chapter 10

Snape made his slow, uncertain way down the stone stairway from the now-empty infirmary, having badgered Poppy into finally – finally – releasing him, with the provisos that, first of all, he report daily for a check-up immediately after supper, and second, that he allow Potter's continued assistance. The infernal brat had apparently consented to this. The fact that Poppy had asked Snape, in private, to keep an eye on the boy was literally the only reason he had acquiesced to this condition.

"Why can he not stay with the Weasleys?" he had protested. Pomfrey had been at a loss to explain that away, and he had a moment of triumph before Minerva – blast the woman! – cut in with, "Molly and Arthur have enough to be getting on with, without adding Harry to their burdens right now. Besides, he'd have to floo to St. Mungo's for checkups, and that would not be wise. Furthermore, Severus, he's safer here until Kingsley and the Aurors round up the rest of Voldemort's followers.

That last had been the telling blow to Snape's protests, though he wanted to argue that, as Potter managed to evade Voldemort, his Death Eaters, the snatchers, and the bloody rest of the bloody wizarding world for the past year, he could bloody well evade the rest of the Death Eaters… depending on who was left, of course… and provided his head and skull agreed to cooperate… and he didn't have to use too much magic before he was completely healed… At which point, his argument collapsed in on itself, leaving him no choice but to admit that the boy needed to stay here for the time being.

The banister was gritty under his palm, and dust crunched underfoot, making the stairs hazardous. I should have waited, he acknowledged. Perhaps he was not quite as ready to navigate a ruined castle as he'd have been to make his way through the castle under normal circumstances. He watched his feet rather more than his surroundings, but the dust and grit permeated everything, and the sun coming through the high windows cast a light that glittered against and was lost among a haze in the air. Here and there, he had to step around bits of broken flagstone, and in the periphery of his vision, he noted damage to the walls and ceiling. No wonder Potter had gotten injured! Fool boy!

By the time he reached the first floor and the entrance hall, he was overwhelmed and shaken by the destruction around him, aware that it must have been so much worse, three months past. Gods! Had anything been left intact and undamaged? Surely – surely – people had lost lives here… and here… and here… A fading brown stain on the stone at the bottom of the staircase caught his eye, and he fought not to vomit, a hand going to his mouth, stifling a sob that tore from his chest. I can't do this!

"Severus! I didn't know you were up and about!" Flitwick's warm voice spun Snape about, away from the stain that had frozen him in place.

"Filius!"

To Snape's relief, the man did not comment on the tears he dashed from his eyes, either missing them, or too polite to comment.

"You shouldn't be wandering alone, Severus – not your first trip out. The castle is coming along, but spots are hazardous, if you haven't got your footing." Snape opened his mouth to protest, but Flitwick continued. "Potter came up to the Hall on his own, too. Minerva just finished blistering his ears about that. You are coming to lunch?" He continued, pulling Snape along at his side by force of conversation.

"We just finished the doors yesterday," he said, gesturing to the main entrance. "The Great Hall is nearly done, as well, but I think we'll have to delay the start of term, though that's not for me to say. I believe Minerva was getting ready to make a decision about that this week. It'll be easier, now you're up and about."

"Why is that?" Snape asked as they approached the Great Hall.

"We need your help with the wards, of course."

Snape would have commented, but just then, the doors to the Great Hall opened, anticipating them, and he stopped, stunned.

It was… perfect. Everything was perfect. The walls were pristine, their architectural detail in shockingly clear relief in the suddenly-clear air. The flagstone shone as if newly waxed, and four long rows of House tables gleamed in the sunlight that streamed through crystal windows, rainbows of red, yellow, green, and blue refracted through the glass in a prism effect, laying bands of color across all four tables and the floor between them.

Witches and wizards in the navy blue of the Department of Magical Maintenance of the Ministry of Magic, interspersed here and there with other specialties, sat at the Gryffindor table. A group of faculty and staff… and one mussed black head… sat at the far end of the Ravenclaw table, oddly enough. Heads turned toward the door, and there were gasps and calls of, "Severus!" "Snape!" and "Blimey!" Snape glanced at Flitwick and swallowed at his smile and encouraging nod, finally moving his feet only when the man gave him a push.

He felt the eyes of everyone on him as he entered the Hall. The walk to where the faculty sat seemed to take forever, and his throat kept spasming shut. He cursed the tears that came to his eyes, and would have turned and fled, were it not for Flitwick's hand at his back. Several of the faculty stood as he drew near, stepping over their benches to come up to him and pat his arm or shake his hand. If they said anything, which he assumed they had, he could not hear it through the rushing in his ears.

"Sit here, Professor," someone said, and a wand was waved, banishing a portion of the bench, replacing it with an armed chair, which the person pulled out for him, their hand going to his shoulder and guiding him to sit. The chair slid soundlessly closer to the table, as his hands gripped the arms. The hand never left his shoulder until a cup of tea was pressed into one of his hands. He looked down to see hands adding honey and a spot of milk, looked up and to his right to see that it was Potter who had seated him, and felt something shockingly like… gratitude… and safety. He stirred himself to sip at the tea, and to look around him, unaware of his wide eyes, at faces that were warm, inviting, caring… retreating into his tea to soothe the lump from his throat and unconsciously leaning closer to Potter, as if to anchor himself.

The boy and Minerva diverted attention from him. "You were saying, Headmistress?"

"Yes – as I was saying, Ravenclaw Tower is ready for habitation, and Hufflepuff will be ready for students within the week, though it is still housing the workers. The kitchens are unharmed, but as you know, our elves are working themselves to a frazzle over the condition of the castle, so I'm not sure it is feasible to ask them to be ready to feed the student body by September first. Gryffindor Tower sustained the worst damage, as you know, and work on repairs there has only begun. It'll be a month, at least, before those rooms are ready. Slytherin…" She hesitated. "The primary issue with the dungeons is the number of curses and traps that were laid there, some of which appear to be inherent in the castle's own magic. Distinguishing which belong and which need to be broken has not been easy, even with curse-breakers with a history of that House affiliation. Severus, perhaps you could advise them?"

Startled at being directly addressed, Snape fought to replay the conversation to figure out what he'd just been asked. A hand pressed his arm with reassuring pressure, and Potter leaned in. "I'm sure Sev— Professor Snape and I could take a look, Headmistress. Is tomorrow soon enough?"

Minerva looked relieved at that. "Thank you, Potter. That would be perfect."

"It would give you a chance to stretch your legs, Professor," the boy said.

Despite the tactic – which he appreciated as quite… Slytherin – Snape was irritated. "I'll thank you not to choose commitments for me, Potter. I'm sure there'll be plenty to occupy me and to provide… therapeutic exercise… in setting up my quarters." He did not miss the look Minerva, that old cat, threw Potter, or the guilty flush that appeared on his face. No matter. He would know within the hour what that was about.

The midday meal passed in a haze of conversation that swirled around Snape like motes of dust caught in a whirlwind, and he repeatedly found himself shaking his head to clear it, and to fight off panic or tears that made swallowing difficult. He barely noted Potter at this side, dishing small portions onto his plate, refilling his tea, and encouraging him, "Try some of this, Professor. It's really good," or "Have some more tea, Professor?" or "Here, let me get that for you."

Eventually, the noise, the smells of food, and Potter's constant nattering got to him, and he murmured, "Pardon me," and scraped back his chair, intending to leave quietly. At his movement, all conversation at the table stopped.

"All righ', there, Perf'sser?" Hagrid asked from the end of the table.

"Fine. I'm… I'll be in my quarters." He missed the look of alarm that flashed across Potter's face, and the reassuring nod McGonagall gave the boy. Potter stood, hesitated a moment, and said, "I'm done, as well. I… I should probably rest…"

Madam Pomfrey sniffed and nodded. "I'll see you both following supper – do not forget or I'll have you both confined to the infirmary faster than you can say Quidditch!"

Snape nodded at her, ran his glance across those at the table, and turned hastily, before his eyes could betray him again. When he moved to walk out of the Great Hall, Potter paced silently at his side, taking an extra step every so often to match Snape's long stride.

When Potter did not turn toward Gryffindor Tower, but continued to accompany him to the stairs leading to the tunnel to the dungeons, Snape stopped. "Where do you think you're going, Potter?"

"I… I thought I'd make sure you got to your room alright."

"I have lived in this castle for more than twenty years of my life, Potter. I hardly think…"

"Just… just let me…"

"Where are your rooms?"

"Ah… Gryffindor Tower is uninhabitable, remember?"

He'd forgotten… or hadn't really paid attention.

"Where are you staying, Potter?" Snape said, his voice sharp with suspicion.

"Ah… I've been staying in the dungeons."

"What the bloody hell is a Gryffindor doing in my dungeons?"

"It's not like I haven't been there before!" Potter shot back, and then blanched, taking a step back as if he expected to be hexed… or grabbed.

Snape followed his retreat, taking one long step toward the boy, and grabbed him by the shirt, twisting it to pull the boy nearer. "What. Were you doing. In my dungeons, Potter?" he growled dangerously.

Potter grabbed at his hands, trying to wrest them free of his collar. "Second year! I… I was trying to see if Malfoy was the heir of Slytherin. Ron… Ron and I snuck into the Slytherin common room…"

"Polyjuiced!" Snape snarled. "You lied to me, Potter! You said you never stole from my potions closet!"

"I never did! It was Hermione! I told you!"

Snape shoved the boy away. "A technicality, Potter. You are nonetheless guilty!"

Potter rubbed at his neck, glared at him resentfully, and then shrugged. "Yeah. I know."

Snape was taken aback by the admission. "Ten points from Gryffindor for your theft, Potter. Another ten for lying. And five points to Gryffindor for acknowledging your fault."

The boy shook his head. "Too late, Professor. I'm not a student anymore, remember? And anyway -" He gestured to the place where the huge tally of House points usually hung from the wall. "Point system's broken for now," he pointed out.

Snape glanced at him, then turned toward the stairs again, ruing the fact that he was dressed only in trousers and a shirt, lamenting the ability to express his irritation by whirling in his robes. Potter scrambled after him.

They made their way, without talking, through the tunnel that led under the Black Lake, its green hue seen through thick panes of glass, coloring the walls in an eerie, ever-changing play of light and shadow, the sun filtering in interrupted by waving grasses and the passage of the lake's denizens, dimly seen in the murk. Potter caught up with him and walked at his side as if he knew the way.

"If the dungeons are hexed and traps are laid, how is it you're staying down here? I would think Ravenclaw…"

"Ravenclaw is only now habitable, Professor. Everything above ground was damaged."

"Hufflepuff…"

"Hufflepuff is where the workers have been staying."

"And the Chosen One is too good to live with the rabble?" Snape sneered.

The boy inhaled sharply, and Snape looked at him, satisfied to see that he'd gotten to the boy, to judge by his clenched jaw. After a moment, to his surprise, Potter mastered himself and said, "McGonagall and the Ministry felt it would be safer for me to… to sleep away from the workers. They can't do security screening on everyone, and there… there have been… threats." He mumbled the last, and Snape felt a flash of alarm, but did not give voice to it. After a moment, Potter said, "And…"

"Yes?"

"And I have nightmares… sometimes. Wouldn't want to… to… to bother anyone…"

The flash of alarm spiked. "What kind of nightmares? Of the Dark Lord? Does Minerva know? Kingsley? Have you told anyone? Is this connected to the nightmares you had fifth year?" The questions tumbled out of him uncensored, just a brain-to-mouth connection he felt helpless to interrupt. He finally managed to get control, clamping his lips shut by virtue of folding his arms tightly across his chest, and digging fingers into his biceps. His left wrist ached, distracting him further.

Potter looked at him in shock.

"Stop gaping, and answer the question!"

"No. Not like that. Not… it's not connected to my scar." The boy brushed his forehead. "It's not Voldemort, Professor. He's dead. I promise. He's gone."

"Then what -?"

"Look, could we not talk about this right now?" Potter turned back to the corridor and stalked off, deeper into the dungeons. Snape narrowed his eyes at the retreating figure, then followed, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Potter stopped at the door to Snape's former quarters, placed a hand on the door, and muttered something too low for Snape to hear. The door swung silently inward, but rather than entering, Potter stood back, allowing Snape to sweep in ahead of him, glaring at the boy as he brushed past….

To stop just inside the door.

He did not know what he was expecting. Boxes, maybe. Remnants of Slughorn's appalling taste in furnishings… dank from disuse, dirty, dark, damp… at the least. His own things dumped unceremoniously in his former quarters, awaiting his presence… or ready for disposal, in case he did not survive… or awaiting his move, in the event he did not stay.

He was not expecting… warmth… soft lighting… his things arranged as he'd had them when he was Head of Slytherin… He did not expect dry comfort… lighter versions of Slytherin House colors. He did not expect gleaming surfaces that reflected light that banished darkness in even the deepest corners, yet felt comforting, rather than harsh, welcoming rather than intrusive. He did not expect warm woven rugs between his sofa and chairs in front of the fireplace… years of accumulated antique potions equipment, gleaming and carefully arranged with like kind on shelves and tables and… and his desk… right where he liked it… and fresh quills and parchment and ink…

Stunned, he walked slowly into the room, his fingers trailing on tables and sofa, along walls and bookshelves partially filled with familiar tomes. At the sound of shuffling at the door, he turned to see Potter watching him warily.

"How?"

"I needed something to do while I waited for you…" Potter reddened. "Waited for you and… and everyone… to get better. McGonagall… sent down your things…"

"And how is it, Potter, that you gained access to my quarters?"

"They weren't your quarters when I… when we started – they were Slughorn's. He released his ward for McGonagall before he left."

"The Headmistress gave you access?" Snape was confused, felt himself becoming angry. Why on earth would McGonagall give Potter access to Snape's things? "Why?"

"I didn't exactly ask. Permission, I mean. I just came here, and… and the… the… the room let me in."

"It… just… let you."

"Yeah. So…" Potter moved into the room, and trailed fingers across the back of the sofa, much as Snape had.

"What were you doing down here?" Snape demanded.

"Looking for a place to stay."

"Looking for –" Snape stared at the boy, his mind working rapidly. Then he spun around, took three steps, and slammed open the door to his bedroom.

Part of his mind took inventory – his beloved ebony bed, its headboard and newel posts embedded with protective charms and spells, his wardrobe that usually held his robes – probably empty, now, unless those, too, had been unpacked without his consent.

A pair of denims lay across the foot of the bed. Denims! The boy had... Potter had been in his bedroom. Using his bedroom... using his bed, his linens, his things. No one - no one in twenty years other than house elves - had been in his private sanctuary, his safe haven, the only place where the demands and horror of the reality of his life was not allowed to intrude. His safe space had been violated. He drew back, his stomach clenching in fear, as if he'd been personally violated, whirled, and took three long steps that brought him towering over Potter, who held his ground, pale but firm, looking up at him with still, calm eyes, though a flicker of fear was visible in their depths.

"Get. Out. Potter," Snape spat, enunciating each word with barely-contained rage. Potter just looked at him. "I said get out. Get out – now! Get out I said!"

He raised his hand as if it held his wand and pointed at the door, and the rage in him poured forth in one hot blast, that propelled Potter backwards until his back slammed against the door, banging his head against it, knocking the breath out of the boy. Without turning, Potter reached behind him for the doorknob, his eyes never leaving Snape's wild-eyed, irate face, pulled the door open, and paused. Rather than frightened, he looked worried… or pitying. Snape could not stand that. Potter opened his mouth to say something – something Snape no doubt did not want to hear.

"OUT!" he shouted, and slashed his wrists across each other, palms outward, pushing the boy out with wandless magic fueled by anger and fear, slamming the door shut after Potter. He flung his arms outward, and a tight, enraged burst of energy sent books flying and fanned the flames in the fireplace, making them leap and cast ominous shadows across his face.